And in his bloody hand he held a sword
Dripping with recent murder, and a branch
Of breezy olive, with flocks of fleecy wool
All nicely tipt. Even thus I saw the man;
And stretched before him an unearthly host
Of strangest women, on the sacred seats
Sleeping—not women, but a Gorgon brood,
And worse than Gorgons, or the ravenous crew
That filched the feast of Phineus[n11] (such I’ve seen
In painted terror); but these are wingless, black,